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For Copper

For Copper

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Seventeen years ago today we took into our home a dog of uncertain heritage and even more dubious temperament: a bundle of nerves, a combination of dog parts that never seemed to fit together. Long body, short legs. Perky ears, plume tail. 

A dog that fooled us from the beginning, behaving so well at the Loudoun County Humane Society shelter that you barely knew he was there. A week later he would bark at anything that moved.

He had the powerful shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, could bound over the couch in one leap: preferably into the arms of my mother, visiting for Christmas, sipping a glass of red wine and no fan of rambunctious animals.

In his first month with us, Copper would consume shoe leather, eye medicine, a pair of pink panties, and the contents of a colostomy bag. He sometimes ate dog food, too. He barked, he nipped, he escaped every chance he got. 

But none of that mattered. Because we loved him right from the start. Loved him fiercely. He was joy incarnate, you see. And now … he’s gone. 

Ripeness

Ripeness

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Before the flurry of preparation begins, I search for a poem to serve as grace before the meal. Or if not, to sum up gratitude for my eyes only. This one does: 

Ripeness

Jane Hirshfield

Ripeness is
what falls away with ease.

Not only the heavy apple,
the pear,
but also the dried brown strands
of autumn iris from their core.

To let your body
love this world
that gave itself to your care
in all of its ripeness,
with ease,
and will take itself from you
in equal ripeness and ease,
is also harvest.

And however sharply
you are tested —
this sorrow, that great love —
it too will leave on that clean knife.

Haunted Chicken Coop

Haunted Chicken Coop

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It wasn’t exactly a haunted walk I took yesterday through uptown Port Townsend. But it was filled with little ghosts and goblins and houses decked out in their Halloween best. 

My favorite was this haunted chicken coop, the hens pecking away nonchalantly behind faux tombstones. They don’t need to make fun of death because, well, they have no idea they’ll experience it one day. 

We humans, of course, are another matter. 

It’s Barbie!

It’s Barbie!

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My first one had a bouffant hairdo, not the iconic ponytail. But I loved her just the same. 

I’m talking about Barbie, of course, the doll being celebrated in a new feature film directed by Greta Gerwig.

In honor of the film and of the Barbiemania sweeping the country, I picked up this beauty in the basement. She is, like all my daughters’ dolls, much loved. 

Her hair is matted and her dress is stained, but she is the most intact and presentable Barbie I could find. Many of her buddies are missing arms or have short haphazard haircuts. (The fact that dolls’ hair doesn’t grow back was a fact my kids couldn’t seem to grasp.)

Yes, we have heat domes, indictments and droughts this summer. But we also have … the Barbie movie. 

Sweet Birdie

Sweet Birdie

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Our blue parakeet, Alfie, died last night. He was seven years old and a most splendiferous fellow. He had been ailing for a few weeks, but until recently was as spry as a teenager, clambering around the cage, hanging upside down to nibble on a collard leaf, singing his heart out. 

Alfie taught his young cage mate, Toby, everything he knew, and Toby reciprocated by preening his old friend and literally propping him up at the end. A model of devotion, which I’ve seen enough of in the animal world to know is the norm rather than the exception. 

In most ways I envy birds — their plumage, their songs and their flight — but in one way I don’t. They can never lie down. They must fly or stand until the end.

Alfie’s end came last night. Rest in peace, sweet birdie. 

This Time With Music

This Time With Music

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This should have been yesterday’s post. But yesterday I hadn’t yet watched a televised recording of what I witnessed in person the evening before, albeit from a distance.

It’s been our habit lately to watch the 4th of July fireworks on D.C.’s mall — the same ones that appear in living rooms across the land — from a ridge in Arlington, across the Potomac. While this provides a hassle-free and far-off glimpse at the gorgeous display, it doesn’t supply a soundtrack. 

I got that yesterday, when I took in the replay of what I watched live Tuesday night. This time there were no toddlers jumping on and off my lap, but there was Renee Fleming singing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” and the National Symphony playing “1812 Overture.” 

It was fireworks with music. It was what I’d been missing.

The Lady Vanishes?

The Lady Vanishes?

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When I was in New York last month I snapped a photo of Lady Liberty from the High Line. The sky was hazy (though not smoke-filled), and you could barely make out the statue’s distinctive profile. (Zoom in and look to the right of the gray girder to see the vague form hoisting her torch.)

As I thought about what to say this morning, I remembered snapping this shot, thought it might have a certain metaphorical significance: the lady vanishes, the statue so far away that it’s almost not there at all. 

Don’t we feel that way sometimes about our country, about its ideas and ideals, that we’ve forgotten what unites us in our fights over what divides us? 

The trick, I think, is to do what we can as citizens to keep alive its founding principles: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Tolerance, too. 

Summer and Smoke

Summer and Smoke

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For me and for many, summer is a recharging season. A lot of the recharging occurs outdoors. Whether it’s walking the trails, writing on the deck, or dining al fresco, summertime is outside time.

But not this summer. This summer I check my phone first. This morning the air quality index is 153, Code Red. So I’ll write from my office and exercise in the basement. There are plenty of indoor projects — cleaning up decades worth of clutter, for starters. 

I won’t be idle. But I won’t be happy. 

And yet … it’s the way many of the world’s people live everyday, without the privilege of working at (and inside) the home. Missing summer is the least of their concerns. I’ll keep them in mind today.

(Summer in the city, where there was no smoke last week. A tip of the hat to Tennessee Williams for the post title.)

Dads and Babies

Dads and Babies

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On this day of dads, I’m thinking about babies, too, especially one particular baby who is napping upstairs. In fact, it’s only because she’s napping that I’m able to write this post.

On this day of all days, fathers and babies naturally belong together.  Dads (and grandpas) have a way of jostling, tossing, blowing on tummies and just generally making an infant’s day. 

I’m sure this infant would agree. 

As the Smoke Clears

As the Smoke Clears

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As the smoke clears, there are shadows once again, and colors, not just a haze of gray. 

As the smoke clears, the outdoors comes into its own, a place to walk and talk and read, not scenery on the other side of glass. 

As the smoke clears, children walk to the school bus. Later they’ll gather by the basketball goal and rope swing to play.

There will be dinners al fresco, dogs barking, the neighbor yelling at his sports team through an open window— small wonders made possible by a shift in the wind, a passing shower.